


and we had all been born with original sin, regardless

by sirnando



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 22:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11389719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: Eight years is how long it took Marco to clear his throat and find religious enlightenment in Sergio's eyes.





	and we had all been born with original sin, regardless

**Author's Note:**

> this could most likely be considered a religious abomination so if you're not into that type of satire I 10/10 do not recommend

Sergio had kissed Marco when he was 20 and the other was 18. It was for a game of spin the bottle, except the bottle was a stick balanced on a rock and no one was drunk except for Sergio, but no one remembered a time when he wasn't. The alcohol was stale on Marco's lips and he wiped them on his sleeve when Sergio turned around. But he still remembered the experience as quite - interesting. 

They had only talked once before the kiss, about nipple piercings and drugs. Topics that Marco had no idea about but he still pretended to know because he was the type who liked to please people. And Sergio had known that he had absolutely no idea because first, Marco, with his chronic dry eyes and runny nose, didn't seem like the type to know how nipple piercings felt. And douching had nothing to do with drugs, yet he nodded along like it did.

Sergio had forgotten the experience or otherwise never mentioned it to anyone, just took another shot and threw himself onto one of the open couches, unwilling to continue in the game.

Sometimes Marco had tried to approach him at school afterwards, an opportunity to throw himself into the popular, dangerous community that he dreamed of. But his hands either grew too sweaty or his head started spinning too much so he told himself to push it to another day. The “another day” never came and before he knew it, his diploma was in his hand and he was walking the stage, graduating college. They were moving on to new places and all he had done since the kiss was stare at Sergio oddly across lecture halls.

But Sergio had himself walked on over, smiled, shook Marco’s hand and said “I was more sober than you think.” Wink. Marco stared wide eyed at Sergio's back. And that was the last he saw of him.

~

Or so he thought because it wasn't the last time. The next time they saw one another was when Real Madrid bought Marco. But he had changed. Graduated from the temporary tattoos that people had made fun of him for to a sleeve for which he squeezed his jaw ridged, let one tear drop onto his jeans. He had tried piercing his nipple but panicked and learned that douching was in fact not drug related but he did not ever try the proper ways. And even though his right ear showcased a diamond stud and his voice graduated from pre pubescent to silk worth a fortune, his old shy habits still creeped up on him from time to time. Held his vocal cords like reins and took hold of what he was saying. That was the case when he was introduced to Sergio. 

He had stood in front of the squad with a smile on his face, accepting all the greetings he received. Until he reached Sergio who had arrived late with a toothpick in his mouth, his body now a canvas of art Marco would never completely understand and a look in his eye that indicated he did not remember Marco at all. Marco offered a meek 'hi' and Sergio walked off, a flash of his nipple ring showing itself to Marco. He was told the story later by Marcelo. How he'd used a barely sterile needle, an apple and a 'fuck'.

~

Sergio did not say anything to him. Not out of impoliteness, but out of Sergio-ness as everyone named it. If he did not see a dire need to, he would not make efforts to talk to you. The complete opposite of what Marco recalled. A Sergio who used to talk even when he was incapable because of his limp mouth caused by whatever pill he popped fifteen minutes before.

Marco decided it was therefore improper to make contact as well. He watched silently from the side instead. At the scars on Sergio's knuckles, the stains under his eyes, the nipple ring that seemed to always tease at Marco from under stretched fabric. Listened in to the stories about just how many fucks Sergio did not give and sometimes brushed against his shoulder just to check if at least the warmth he had felt against his skin was still the same. He was unsure.

And Sergio did his own observing that he knew Marco did not realize. Because, God, he knew him from somewhere. But from where? He would have remembered the tattoos and the diamonds because he remembered every other one he came across but these escaped his memory. It was true that he never approached anyone first unless he had a solid motive. 

~

It lasted three months. Marco screaming into his pillows for Sergio to remember who he was and Sergio drilling his head at home with the handle of his fork, trying to dig up any ink streak that would finally help him remember who Marco was.

Marco had allowed himself to reassume his position of pathetic loser when he laid in bed and replayed the kiss. The saltiness from Sergio's sweat, the sweetness of liquor against his tongue and the palpitating crisis his heart endured through the whole ten seconds that the kiss lasted. It had been his first and quite frankly his best and he still had a large dose of self loathing swept up under his carpet of in-denial, because he had never spoken up to Sergio after. The wink was also included in the mental slideshow he watched every night.

They did not speak until Sergio had knocked the butt of his fork hard enough against his forehead to leave a bruise.

Only then did Sergio stop Marco in the locker room, placing his hand on Marco's chest and pulling him aside. Marco kept his breath slow. Sergio looked at him, turned Marco's head left and right, examining. Marco felt his heart go into a crisis again, looked to the side, unable and unwilling to make eye contact.

"You're the liar? Aren't you?" Marco did not know how to respond. Liar?

"You have to be the one. We kissed once. You're the one who talked about shit you had zero idea on."

Oh, yes. So maybe he was in fact a liar. "Yeah," Marco looked down at his shoes. He had not searched for refuge there in quite a while. Sergio was staring. He could feel his eyes burning against his skin. 

And then Sergio had taken both thumbs and ran them across Marco's eyebrows, down his temple. Marco sighed in satisfaction, partially because the memory of eight years ago creeped back into his head. He winced inwardly. Sergio did not seem to pay any mind. Instead he traced the outline of Marco's nostrils with the thumbs, brushed the length of Marco's bottom lip with one. Marco felt his confidence warm up into him again, felt his habits loosen their grip and he allowed his lips to open slightly, eyelids fluttering goosebumps along his arms. Let the tip of his tongue reach out to lick Sergio's thumb gently. Sergio bit his own top lip until he tasted irony blood.

"God," he mumbled, voice husky, Marco had to strain to hear, "you're fucking gorgeous."

Marco never had a chance to answer with "much obliged" or "same to you" because the rest of the squad came in and Sergio blended into the crowd.

~

Marco had pulled his boots on while his head remained spinning and the shoelaces were still fuzzy.

Gorgeous. As if good looking didn't suffice. As if rubbing his face for emphasis was truly necessary for Sergio to lay his point out. As if Marco did not have a long enough slideshow to play already. 

He was uncertain of what to expect afterwards. Being ignored? Being ridiculed? Being fondled ridiculously in abandoned corridors?

All he got was a gentle smile the day after and a wink. A pat on the shoulder the next. And finally a "You grew up," while he toyed with the stud in Marco's ear. Marco had only been capable of a shrug and admitting university was not the stereotypical highlight on his life that everyone claimed it to be. Sergio had nodded enthusiastically. 

~

Sergio asked many questions. About the rest of his college career. About the tattoos. About the piercing, if he ever tried the nipple, all while Marco stared at Sergio's biting his lip. About anything that popped into his head. About if Marco remembered anything from that night. The lights, the smell, the kiss. Marco had shrugged and said he did not recall everything, only a few small details. A lie again. He felt Sergio recognize it.

But he still seemed more or less invested. Interested in the life story of the only boy he had kissed while completely wasted and still remembered it vividly. He had lied about the sobriety at graduation - did not have enough time to explain. He might as well have been anyway.

They started dissecting the topic of musical taste about three more months in. Marco told him about how he had fallen in love with the music his parents grew up with. His vinyl collections that lined the walls. The Smiths. The Police. David Bowie. Depeche Mode. "Come over and I'll show you." The words slipped through his lips before he had an opportunity to proofread them. But Sergio had already agreed before he had a chance to take them back.

Saturday? Saturday. Marco had not realized how tightly he was clenching his fists.

~

Marco did not replay the show for himself that night. Nor Thursday. Nor Friday. A naive portion of himself hoped that he would have a live action revisiting instead. A quick spin on the vodka bottle he planned on opening with no one else in the room to win a chance except for him. 

Sergio had arrived with his hair gelled back stiff and his own mixture bottle. To relive the memories to at least some extent. Marco's stomach tightened.

He showed him his line up. Vinyls hung on the wall, on shelves, in boxes lining the wall. Some torn paper cases, some bruised but not ruined, some completely unopened. Those were his favorites. Too holy to touch but not sinful to buy and admire. He had the same vinyls on CD's anyway. 

Sergio ran his fingers down the rows, thumbed through some that caught his attention, side eyed Marco to make sure he wasn't touching something he was not supposed to. Marco just stood on the side, eyes wide and explaining where he bought it, when he bought it, why he bought it. He offered to open the vodka.

Sergio had agreed, mouth dry, prepared to burn his throat. He spun the cap on the table while Marco poured, fingers shaking. And God, Marco blushed at the idiotic thought that the vodka tasted the same as back then, because he had never tasted it that night. Except for whatever residue was in Sergio's mouth. Sergio was swinging his head back, one two three four down in a forty seconds while Marco still stirred his second with a pinky finger. He watched Sergio's chest move up and down, nipple ring up down, eyes up down.

And then Sergio was up from his chair, arms reaching out to Marco who had already unconsciously been sucking his pinky dry, ready to be pulled in. Sergio leaned in slowly, nose pressed into the skin under Marco's eyes, his bottom lip barely brushing Marco's top. And Marco stood with his head slightly tipped forward, eyelids quivering from how tightly he was holding them shut, mouth parted open. Hands swinging by his sides, he breathed "Please," nudged lightly, "please," and Sergio leaned in all the way. Hands laced themselves into Marco's hair, gripped tightly while Marco still stood limply.

It had not changed in eight years. The circles with which Sergio's tongue massaged into his inner cheeks. The taste of his sweat, his vodka tongue, his moan down Marco's throat. The one difference was his fingertips clinging to Marco's jaw. It was childish and fresh and met every single expectation he'd compiled mentally. 

But suddenly Sergio was pulling away, leaning in only once more for a longer peck. Marco tugged on Sergio's bottom lip, bit onto it as Sergio moved out again because it was not time to finish yet, not yet. But Sergio jerked, unraveled his hands and walked out the door. Marco stood in the same kissing position for five minutes afterwards, until the tingling from where Sergio had run his hand down his jawbone, disappeared. 

~

Sergio was reckless. Marco acknowledged dutifully. He had never ceased to be, except now he was older and things he used to do became legal. He had told Marco the only reason that he was still at the club was because he knew which people to fuck dry against their well organized desks. On the papers that he had to sign in order to stay. He clubbed and he drank and he mixed powders with liquids so that he could fuck himself over even harder and he rarely listened to the paper warnings he received in the mail. Telling him to "tone it down". But then again who didn't do those things anyway. Marco saw no fault. Saw Sergio has the embodiment of a free spirit he still sought to be. Sergio would argue he was more of a satanic replica.

With his body still buzzing, confidence coursing through, Marco approached Sergio the next morning and said "I don't believe you properly finished yesterday." 

There was nothing to finish, was the flat response he got back. He started walking away briskly but Marco kept his pace. 

And why say that?

"Because I have a policy of not tainting pure things."

Marco frowned. "You give me too much credit."

Sergio turned on his heel to face him, his own eyebrows creased. "I follow very few rules." 

He watched Marco's lower lip jut out. "You told me you always break the rules." 

Sergio raised his eyebrows. Cocked his head. Marco frowned. It looked more like a pout. "True."

~

He lead Marco to the shittiest part of Madrid. A form of satisfying his symbolistic craving. Across the cracked cement littered with broken beer bottles, stickers of profanity in the windows, scratches in the wooden doors marking the presence of those who had flown into another world on powder clouds. Marco held onto the hem of Sergio's shirt instead of the hand Sergio did not seem willing to offer.

All Marco had remembered was fireworks in his eyes and Sergio panting into him. That he wasn't going to fit, oh god he wasn't going to fit, he wasn't going to fit. Red, blue, green swirled starlights and an alphabet clogged in his throat. There was nothing he could have moaned to Sergio that the other did not know already. Long, tattooed fingers. Being bare in all interpretation of the word. Reversed to a temporary tattoo, runny nose rag doll controlled by Sergio. Unable and unwilling to tell him to stop.

Sergio slammed Marco's head against graffiti of someone who had been asking God for a savior. In an alley where the only thing watching was the one flickering street light above them. French rap spitting from inside of night clubs. Sergio clawed stories into Marco's back with his nails, held Marco's neck with his palm so he wouldn't keep pounding it into the wall while Sergio pounded into him. Marco held his hands on Sergio's hips, guided them against his sweet spot over and over and over and over the ghost of 'fuck' and a 'please' on his spit lathered lips. Sergio was breaking his promise of never tainting purity but an angel with pleas rolling off of its tongue was not supposed to be disobeyed. He had been taught to listen to holy figures. He twisted slightly and fucked harder. Marco's head collapsed onto his shoulder.

"For fucks sake keep breaking rules," Marco licked at Sergio's neck breathlessly, naked, Sergio gripping onto his ass.

Sergio groaned, eyes rolling back into his head, lightly pushing Marco's head further against his neck. Marco let his fingers inch towards Sergio's nipple, the ring, across sweaty fabric clinging to both their chests. Fingers full of adventure and curiosity. And the first pinch convinced Sergio to listen to Marco.

~

He had gotten a tug on the earlobe the next morning, in the middle of the swirl of yelling, laughing bodies changing for training. He'd wondered all night, unshowered because he was too exhausted, about what they had kickstarted last night. He was tainted now, according to Sergio's guidelines. Impure, stained, good enough to fuck again. 

He had taken words like Relationship, Emotion, Attachment and wrapped them in a little bundle, shut it tight with a No and threw it under the rug in his head. It had been too soon to use those. However persuading Sergio moaning Marco into his cheek was. 

He would allow Sergio to make the decisions. Make the contact. He had spun the bottle, he would direct this one to where it was to go. Because Marco had become limitless in the span of one night. 

And with hands patiently folded in his lap, he awaited Sergio approaching him, bottom lip busted evidently from gnawing at it.

He ran the back of his index finger along Marco's eyebrow. "Are we praying together again tonight?"

Marco's response was his tailbone pressed into a wall, flowered wallpaper peeling at the edges, molding underneath. Sergio kneeling in front of him, white marks imprinting into Marco's thighs from where Sergio gripped too hard. Marco mumbling Oh and God with the rhythm of Sergio's head going Up and Down. This time under a sign that asked if you wanted to talk about the Bible. Bullshit, Marco had thought, for the people who had written that book of ecstasy dreams had never truly experienced this form of holy worship before. 

~

It cemented itself into a trend. Sergio requesting daily prayer and Marco nodding modestly, obediently. The locations varied from alley to alley, beat up hotel room to beat up hotel room. Sergio's favorite seemed to be when Marco's eyes had nowhere to look besides the cross of a church peeking out over the buildings. And when Marco had been suckling his favorite nipple ring, Sergio's back arched in pleasure, he had claimed Marco reignited his faith in religion. A reconstructed hope in saintly figurines. He did not show signs of increased mass attendance.

Every night after he'd been dropped off, the ghost of Sergio's fingertips still pulsing in him, he lay in bed. Unshowered. Even when he had the energy to. But he preferred to fall asleep in the cyclone of sweat, cum and faded cologne instead. A scented lullaby accompanied by Sergio reminding him he was gorgeous. He did it every time.

And yet slowly, increasingly so, Marco found himself with cravings of more. A more he couldn't or wouldn't describe, but one that persisted at the lining of his stomach. Tightened his chest every time Sergio offered him a simple "We're here" when they got to Marco's house. Instead of, something more.

Piled onto that was the fact that Sergio only changed this one thing in his daily routine. He did not rearrange or discard other aspects of it. Which meant he was out, at clubs, at parties, at gatherings of tables lined with white streaks, both before and after he was done with Marco. 

Marco had nothing. He had a bed and a naive tradition of falling asleep with a replay of the night's events. Convinced that Sergio was on mattresses whose springs were coming out, on pavement, along with more bodies beside him. Those who joined him. Those who he conjoined with for the time it took for another one of his climaxes to end.

Every time Marco would push back on his stud so that the end pierced into his skin. Stabbed him back into reality. He had wanted one replay of eight years ago. He had been gifted it, plus more. He would not allow greed to wash over him, because as Sergio had mumbled once, they were religious men now. Vices did entice them anymore.

~

Sergio did not cease to play basketball with the warning letters the club sent him. Did not stop drugging himself to sleep. Drinking whisky out of shot glasses on the stomachs of people he could not see. In clubs where the smell of piss was nauseating but the lights hypnotized you into staying. 

Yet now he missed the waste basket more often. Lost his way to the parties. Had 'wait' tickling its way to the tip of his tongue every time Marco turned to leave the car. Blood pulsing through his hand. 

So it was unsurprising that Marco was startled when Sergio's 'wait' finally sang to his ears. That his heart pounded like a child getting kisses on the cheek as he floated after Sergio to his door. Upstairs. Collapsing onto his bed as Sergio worked at his collarbone. A re portrayal of two hours ago, on white sheets. Peace. Purity. Vulnerability. Mother Mary's portrait singeing holes into their skin.

~

That marked the Rebirth, as Marco called it. A transformation of their Relationship. Marco had allowed himself to use the word now, unpackaged it from his bow tied bag. Not the sentimental kind, just general. A spiritual business transaction. 

A Rebirth which gave Sergio the free will to take Marco home now, instead of their stained brick chapels. Sergio still never touching Marco's lips besides with his fingers. It was just not how he did things, when Marco asked why. 

It became a groggy Marco pulling his pants on backwards, always forgetting one sock to come collect the next night, forgetting yet another. His eyes grazing over the bangs brushed up against Sergio's eyes. Ones he always craved to push back. Always felt the pang of religious duty to resist temptation. 

But slowly, as all life after being recreated, their interaction blossomed. Sergio touching the small of Marco's back before he rose to leave. Then a squeeze of the hand. A press of Sergio's lips to Marco's temple. 

The words under Marco's rug vibrated, antsy, ready to crawl out. Scratching at his mind, bright red streaks until Marco vomited "I never want to leave" one morning when the sun was shining brighter than usual. Blinding him, Sergio wincing beside him. 

He never got a response, besides the ring finger Sergio slithered from his forehead to his inner thigh. The lips he licked. A blush of regret peeking out on Marco's nose. However Sergio found himself not wanting him to leave either.

~

Relationship had planted itself outside of the bag, a tiny sprout of something now growing. Marco had acknowledged that, accepted it and apologized to God for being weaker than he expected.

Emotion now knocked. Gnawed. Complained. For them both. Marco bit at his nails, bleeding beds of thin covering. Sergio had started picking at the tattoo of a cross on the side of his hand. Raw skin lined it.

Marco felt jealousy first. Most prominently. Curiosity asking him who else Sergio slept with. Who else he called gorgeous. Who else he had rechristened himself for. 

And his mystery answer was less. Less people. Never in his bed. Never for the same pleasure he found with Marco. Interactions with foreign bodies became rarer but still existed because Emotion was creeping up on Sergio and he would not allow Attachment to follow. Nightly adventures blocked Emotion out.

And both of them would not admit to one another nor to themselves the physical pain they encountered when away from each other. Sore limbs. Chapped lips. Fingers dry when devout of soft skin they had grown addicted to.

Sergio skipped training sessions, as was the Ramos way. Nothing unusual. However Marco permitted himself the gift of being dramatic. Convinced himself it was because of him that Sergio lost the enthusiasm towards attending. 

Sergio's lips now ghosted over Marco's. A teasing trailer of what could be. Marco mewed softly when Sergio kissed his cheeks instead, just to signal his disapproval. But Sergio never seemed willing to heal him. One angelic call he ignored.

It had become more than Marco had ever imagined, when in the middle of the night he was awoken by Sergio's soft snores against his bicep. But it was still not enough. He knew God would understand.

~

Sergio's situation grew worse. In the midst of doing less of the usual, the club became even angrier. Even more strict. Even more reminders stacking up in a mailbox Sergio stopped opening. The sliver of care he might have once possessed was now stuffed below the tower of Marco related thoughts and sentiments. Emotion against his own rules, but at least he did not have to listen to bullshit club guidelines. At least it clouded reality. The club had never done anything. They would most likely never do anything. 

Sergio held Marco's hand while he fucked into him against his headboard. Another new addition. A meek apology for every time they did not have the patience to stretch Marco out. A choice which made Marco's heart flutter in between pounding. Made Emotion course its way through his veins, bumping against Sergio where they pulsated. 

It was a smack on the ass during the one training Sergio joined them in, every week or two weeks. A smiling kiss. Sergio returning the favor and sucking Marco's hardened nipples. Hiding his problems in the forehead nudges. And Marco became a firm believer in Nothing Going Wrong. 

~

And then Sergio told him about a problem he was facing one day after they had fucked. That someone hadn't been sufficiently emptied out and the club decided it was time for them to part ways. That it would be beneficial for both parties. They were unwilling to put up with Sergio's antics any longer and were hoping this would persuade him to carry out some serious self reflection. Except remnants of previous vices were like rings around Sergio's fingers and he was not willing to take them off just yet. 

Sergio had lit a cigarette with a match. Blew the flame out, threw the burned tip onto the floor. It would leave a stain on his carpet, Marco remembered thinking. Sergio took a drag, ran his fingertips through Marco's stubble and plucked the cigarette from between his lips, popped it into Marco's. Marco sucked, blew out, felt Sergio watch him watching the smoke curl and disappear against the ceiling.

He did not cough as was expected. Told Sergio he had his own fair share of sin in his life.

They exchanged a few more drags, more Sergio pulling it in and out of their mouths. Marco laid on the bed limply, until he felt Sergio's hand intertwine with his. He stiffened slightly.

"God we're fucked."

And it probably should not have elicited it, but nevertheless Marco smiled into the smoke cloud hovering above him. He assumed 'we're' meant a little more togetherness. A kind Marco craved but was never brave enough to ask about. A few more inches of height on their Relationship. And assumption was disappointment's best friend, but Marco decided to befriend assumption anyways.

~

Marco had worn nothing but Sergio's jersey in the morning. His ass peeking out, calling Sergio's twitching fingers.

We're. We're. We're, rang in Marco's ears.

Sergio palmed his ass cheeks before digging his fingers into the plush skin, pulled Marco into his chest. Marco's lips immediately attached themselves onto the nipple ring, ran his tongue over it back and forth. Sergio sighed and pushed his chest out for Marco's mouth. He dug his fingers in deeper, closer to where Marco had started leaning out lightly to part his ass for Sergio. But Sergio was a firm believer in the art of building patience and ironically never used sex to relieve immediate stress. So he ran a finger down the inner rim only, felt Marco groan and suckle harder onto his nipple, but unlatched him. Marco's eyes were still closed, lips puffy and parted, the softest of cries escaping them. Taking out a cigarette, he gave Marco the lighter and let him light it, trying to ease some of the cinema style eroticism that he could feel Marco asking for. Already half hard bumping Sergio's thigh. Pre-cum leaking out in a cursive 'please'. It took every fiber of resistance to not stroke Marco out of his misery. 

And because Sergio had developed a form of weakness for Marco, in the remnants of a festering wound of sin, he pressed his lips into Marco's crying ones. Pink, round, plush and as always pleas dressing them. Marco let out a half gasp, half moan. Hunger possessing him, teeth clashing into Sergio's with the force he pushed into his mouth. Tongues fighting one another, gasping for each other, reunited. Spit lining Sergio's upper lip, Marco's nose rubbing raw into the stubble above it, a battle of Marco nibbling his way around Sergio's mouth, unwilling to let go. Enough to make Marco cum against Sergio's thigh. Sergio wiping it up with his fingers, stuffing them in between their kissing lips. Marco lapping at them with his tongue obediently, lips still gently, messily moving against Sergio's. And Sergio embarrassingly realized he had been sinning by not kissing more often.

~

That was the mark of the Maturation. Marco giggling with a Sergio who burrowed into the crook of his neck. Sighing Sergio, against Marco's fingers playing with his hair. Making tiny braids in freshly washed curls. Marco scraping burnt eggs off of chipped porcelain plates in the morning, coffee burning his tongue. Sergio's own acting as healing balm afterwards. Because Sergio had started telling Marco to stay, when Marco slowly rolled out of bed. 

It became sweeter. Gentler. Interaction full of purity. Sergio felt God's approval when the sun warmed their backs, coaxed them awake. Of course they still prayed in their own reformed fashion, but it was fruitful. Marco felt fulfilled. Felt his mental rug relax and straighten out. His craving of something more was now satisfied. Was able of taking on the role of Ok Man for Sergio. Reassuring him, held in his arms, that it would be Ok. He would find another club, another adventure. Separation did not mean destruction. Sergio always nodded weakly. 

Yet Marco still pushed aside the fact that, even if Sergio smiled more no matter how small, he still had shards of his old routine present. It was ok. Marco was unconvinced unconsciously, but never brave enough to dwell on the fact for too long. Sergio was in a crisis. Familiarity in routine was beneficial, no matter how sinful it might be. 

Sergio still kissed him into sleep's oblivion every night. Reminded him of gorgeous features he had no control over. Held his hand for five, ten, twelve seconds when no one watched. After a year and a half, Relationship had now blossomed into quite a firm tree. Marco felt it in the flower petals touches Sergio covered him in. 

And sometimes Marco saw Sergio pulling at his hair, gnawing at his lip, scratching skin raw on top of new tattoos. He did not think it right to point out he had noticed. 

~

They approached Decay. Neither of them were aware of where their path was leading them, but that was their final destination.

It started with Sergio recommending they not see one another anymore, one morning. That it would not be beneficial for Marco to be associated with Someone Like Him. Jobless. Disgraceful. Lost.

Un-phased, Marco shrugged and took a bite of his bread. It was fine, he claimed, cheeks full, he wouldn't leave. He didn't mind being with a tainted character. Sometimes you had to make sacrifices for love. He smiled lightly, cheeks even puffier than before. 

Sergio had opened his mouth to continue but stopped, turned his body towards Marco, eyebrows creased. Love? He asked. This was not love. Love was permanence and purpose. While this was a fuck whenever they felt like it. Not even adequate enough to be constituted as a fling. Barely any structure.

Marco had stared Sergio into his eyes and stabbed the knife he was slicing his tomatoes with into the wooden table. But he agreed anyway, for the sake of agreement, while sucking on the blood from where the blade had nicked his index finger. Felt the pain pierce through his abdomen.

~

He had been much too naive to use Love. Since that cemented Attachment. Arguably surpassed it. So Marco went home, stabbing himself in the wrists with his keys. 

No Permanence. No Purpose. More than fucking whenever they felt like it however, because sometimes Marco had not wanted to fuck but Sergio persuaded him out of necessity. Only then was Marco pleasantly surprised by the want to fuck, deep in his stomach. 

It had not been Love. Marco, again in his own bed, wondered how it felt like then. But whatever it was with Sergio - Obsession, Infatuation, Stupidity - He would not give up on it. He would dig it up again, replant a new Relationship. It had felt too good to throw away now. So maybe they were sinners after all.

~

Sergio made it clear he had other plans in mind. A path that diverged from Marco. Embarrassment and Agony overriding the Marco sentiments he had once. He no longer requested prayer. Instead he fucked himself over every night with a bottle of hard liquor his brother had insisted on buying him wherever he traveled.

Marco had no opportunity to see him at any trainings. Never had gotten Sergio's number. Was answered with silence when he knocked on Sergio's door. One, two, three weeks turning into a month. 

Marco truly started to pray. A foreign concept, but maybe Sergio would answer him. He worked with the scraps he had left, tried to repair, restructure, scared it was falling apart quicker than he was patching their holes. 

He finally found him in his car outside of a Tesco parking lot. Head on the wheel, smoke from the butt of his cigarette curling against the window. Marco knocked. Sergio stayed still, except for the middle finger he presented him. Marco knocked again. This time Sergio raised his head and it looked like he said "Fuck off" but Marco wouldn't have known seeing as he had his windows custom made sound proof. 

He knocked again. Sergio unlocked the doors.

Marco opened the drivers side, threw the cigarette to the ground and hoisted Sergio up by his armpits. It was an awkward movement, Sergio's feet slightly dragging against the pavement and Marco felt a squeeze of his heart when he heard the Italian leather scuff.

However Sergio did not reek of alcohol like Marco had expected him to, Sergio's body now molded into him. He smelled like the evergreen air freshener he had in his car. Smoke in his hair. Cologne. "It's not gentleman like to just stop fucking talking to someone." He muttered against Sergio's cheek, kissed him gently, guided Sergio's head against his shoulder.

It was startling, as all of Sergio's decisions were initially, but he allowed the heat from the tears absorb itself into his shirt.

~

Sergio was leaving. He announced the morning after. Marco had taken him home and they had slept on the floor among the pleated blankets his niece made him. Hard and cold but Sergio hadn't wanted to go upstairs. Marco did not have the energy to question. 

Marco, hand on his back in pain from the tiled bed, asked Sergio to repeat. He did, message unchanged. Fear and anger boiled up to Marco's forehead, radiated pink. Why? He was being overdramatic. This was unnecessary. They would discuss it later. 

But Sergio shook his head no. Insisted there was nothing to discuss and in fact this discussion was now over. Stop being frustrated, Sergio said to him when he saw Marco frown harder, ringing his hands in his shirt. 

I'm not, Marco responded. Just wanted to know why he thought leaving was the proper choice. Sergio went to him, took rubbed the strain out of Marco's hands, held his chin. Because it was. Because he was obliged to make a sacrifice for the one inkling of love he ever had the pleasure of feeling. A religious duty. 

And Marco had a traffic jam on his tongue. Questions. Swear words. Words that could not get past one another, stuck. What he managed to get out was if he planned on ever coming back. 

Sergio recommended maybe if instead of praying Marco started screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering a part 2, depending on the response - so let ! Me ! Know ! Please !


End file.
